


And Here I Stand

by de_corporis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9698075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_corporis/pseuds/de_corporis
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while to say goodbye.





	

On the rain-slick pavement of the Citadel’s grand plaza, beneath a dark and starless sky, Ignis throws himself into battle.

He’s become a formidable fighter over the past ten years. He knows, now, how to fight without relying on his eyes. A tremor in the earth beneath his feet, the high-pitched wail of a weapon swinging quickly through the air, a darker shadow moving across the murkiness of his ruined vision - he’s learned how all of these can tell him where his opponent will strike next. He dodges and parries as easily as he did while he still had his vision, keeping all of his senses trained on this last, vital mission: _Give Noctis time_. 

He hears the sharp scream of metal coming toward him and lifts his arm to block the incoming blow just in time. The responding ache in his arm is overwhelmed by the sudden, sharp pain in his chest that causes his heart to stutter and his breath to catch.

Ignis knows immediately what it signifies. Noctis has always been the compass point by which he aligned his life. He’s listened to Noctis’ late night confessions about his hopes and fears for the future, looked after Noctis in battle, urged Noctis to eat his vegetables, and waited ten years for the Crystal to give him up. It’s only fitting that he should feel the moment of his Prince’s - his King’s - death.

It sends him to his knees. He’s vulnerable for one brief moment, open to attack, but then it no longer matters. The daemons are gone, purged by the King’s Providence, and the three of them are alone before the Citadel. It is utterly silent. For a few seconds, the world holds its breath.

Then Prompto says, “There. In the East,” and Ignis feels Prompto’s slender hands and Gladio’s large ones lifting him gently. Ignis tilts his face upward. At first, he senses nothing but the usual black. Then, ever-so-slowly, the darkness of his ruined vision lightens into a deep grey. 

Next to him, Prompto lets out a shaky sigh. “Dawn,” he says, and his voice is thick with tears.

“There was never any doubt,” answers Gladio. Ignis has never heard him sound so fragile.

Ignis himself has no words. He feels hollow, all the strength gone from his limbs, and if weren’t for Prompto and Gladio holding him up he’s sure he would slump back to the ground. He is too numb to weep. He thinks it might be better to have the catharsis of tears.

He feels sunlight on his face, warm and achingly familiar after a ten year absence, and his daggers are heavy in his hands. Ignis reflexively tries to vanish them, but they remain solid.

Noctis is gone.

* * *

They go back to Lestallum.

The city is in chaos when they arrive. It’s a joyful chaos, everyone spilling out onto the roadways to bask in the light, but even joyful chaos can turn dangerous if it’s allowed to run wild for too long. They’ve barely pulled in at the overlook before Iris is dragging them to the Leville for an emergency meeting. Everyone who’s worked to hold the fragments of the world together over the past decade are there: Cid and Cindy, Aranea, Cor, Dave, Sania. 

“Okay, Kingsglaive,” says Aranea, and no one is stupid enough to comment on the way her voice wavers. “Why don’t you tell us what happened.”

Ignis finds a seat close to the window and listens to the revelry outside, leaving the talking to Prompto and Gladio. They trail off from time time, like they expect Ignis to add something, but Ignis hasn’t said anything since that final, “Majesty.” It was the last thing he ever said to Noctis, and maybe a part of him believes that if he never says another word, some small part of his Prince will stay with him.

When Prompto finally finishes, no one says anything. Then there’s the sound of glass clinking and liquid being poured. Someone - Gladio, from the size and shape of the fingers - presses a tumbler into Ignis’ hand. 

“To Noctis Lucis Caelum,” says Cor roughly. Ignis lifts his drink to his lips along with everyone else, and tastes the rich smoothness of cognac on his tongue. He’d forgotten how good it could be. Most of the alcohol distilled since the Night began is too strong and harsh to drink for enjoyment; this is a bottle that Cor must have been saving for years. It’s a fitting vintage for toasting the King of Kings.

“Right.” Cid clears his throat. “So we already have a stable base here, and Hammerhead works well as an outpost…”

Ignis stops listening. He doesn’t want to sit here and talk about rebuilding the world. _Noctis_ was the King. Noctis was the one who was supposed to be here, leading the way toward a renewed Lucis. It was his job to lead the way, not vanish in a blaze of eternal glory and leave the rest of them to pick up the pieces.

“...Ignis?”

Ignis blinks behind his glasses. The discussion has come to a halt, and he’s apparently expected to contribute something. “What?” he asks. His voice is harsh even to his own ears, and he can sense Prompto and Gladio flinch in response.

“We need to set up an interim government,” says Cor. “Not the martial law we’ve been operating under for the past ten years. You served as royal advisor, and we would welcome your...”

And all of a sudden, Ignis has had enough. He gets to his feet. Cor falls silent.

“Do whatever you like,” says Ignis. “It’s all the same to me. Just don’t go trying to found a new monarchy. Lucis has had enough of kings.”

No one says anything he makes his way to the door, down the stairs, and out of the hotel. There’s a crowd swarming across the plaza, boisterous and loud, and for a second he’s in danger of becoming overwhelmed. He makes his way carefully to the fringes, where he’s less likely to stumble into anyone, then navigates his way to the overlook. There are people here, too, but it’s easier for him to find a place where he can lean against the low stone wall and let the chorus of voices swirl around him. 

It isn’t long before a body’s moves into his orbit and leans on the wall next to him. He smells leather and iron and a faint trace of smoke, a scent Ignis would know anywhere. 

“It’s sunset,” says Gladio. “Just like when the four of us came here on our way to meet Iris. You remember?”

“As if I could forget.” Ignis summons up the memory: the last rays of sunlight causing the Disc’s crystal pillar to glow a luminous pink gold, the smell of spices and grilled meat wafting on the warm breeze, Noctis stretching luxuriously as he clambers out of the Regalia. “That entire journey… I remember everything.”

They fall into silence, but this time it’s comfortable. The stone is warm beneath Ignis’ palms, as warm as Gladio’s presence at his side. Ignis imagines that can see the Rift stretching out before him, just like that on long-ago day, and that Noctis is at the car waiting for them, instead of lost to them forever.

When Gladio speaks again, his voice can barely be heard above the crowd.

“Did you ever tell him, before the end?”

It’s not a question Ignis was expecting. His hands clench involuntarily into fists, and for a moment he wants to lash out at Gladio, curse him for prodding at that particular wound. The the anger gives way to bone-deep sorrow and exhaustion, and he slumps a bit in defeat.

“He knew that I loved him,” says Ignis. “He knew that all of us loved him.”

“Ignis -”

“Please don’t,” says Ignis. “It won’t make a difference now, and it certainly wasn’t important then. All that mattered was that he knew he wasn’t alone, and we would be with him until the end.”

And if the love Ignis felt for Noctis went beyond the love of a retainer for his liege, or a friend for a friend - well. Ignis had learned early on that it was best to take those feelings and hide them away in the recesses of his heart, where they would trouble no one other than himself. He’d always known Noctis was beyond him - the Lucian bloodline was touched by the gods, and not for someone like Ignis to aspire to. It had been enough to offer Noctis the love born of friendship and loyalty, and let impossible dreams remain dreams. 

He’d thought he’d kept it hidden from everyone. Not that it was a complete to surprise to realize Gladio had guessed his secret; the man had always been more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for.

“You know,” says Gladio, “at the end, when Noctis said that he left it to us? A lot of that was meant for you.”

Ignis shakes his head in denial, but Gladio presses on.

“Come on, Ignis. Who in the world is better suited to lead us than you? Cor and Cid knew Regis, but you were the one sitting in on every Council meeting since you were eighteen years old. You’re the one who knows how to govern. Noct knew that. He left Lucis to you.”

“But I was supposed to support _him_ ,” says Ignis. The grief threatens to spill out of him. “He was supposed to rule, and I would advise him. I was never supposed to be the one leading.” He reaches up and presses his fingers against his ruined eyes, forcing the tears back.

“I could hate him,” whispers Ignis. “He took the easy route, didn’t he? He goes and saves the world, then leaves us alone with the grief.”

Gladio’s hand is tight on Ignis’ shoulder. “But we have to honor his sacrifice. We have to rebuild. And we need you with us.”

Objectively, Ignis understands the truth in Gladio’s words. He knows wallowing in grief and anger is the worst kind of self-indulgence, and one that he can ill afford at such a fragile moment in Lucian history. He knows the best way to honor Noctis is by rebuilding the kingdom he gave his life to save. It's all very rational. But right now, with the memory of Noctis’ voice still echoing in his ears, it feels like too much. 

“Can’t it at least wait until the morning?” he asks.

Gladio shifts until his arm is wrapped around Ignis’ shoulders, and Ignis lets himself lean into the touch. Steady, dependable Gladio, as strong as the Earth itself.

“Yeah, Iggy,” he says. “It can wait.”

They stand together at the overlook as the celebration swirls around them, and the first stars appear in the sky.

* * *

When Ignis calls the first official meeting of the Lucian Reconstruction Council to order, he makes one thing perfectly clear.

“We’ll be holding elections in one year’s time,” he says. “We need to make sure that there’s some infrastructure in place for rebuilding, but we are not a monarchy, and we will not cling to emergency powers. Is that understood?”

There’s a chorus of assent from around the room. Ignis acknowledges it with a nod.

“Good. Then let’s get to work.”

And there’s no end of work to be done. Ignis’ last three years at the Citadel, after he’d earned his doctorate, had been never ending rounds of Council sessions, classified informational briefings, and wrangling Noctis; the experience it gave him in dealing with high pressure situations on minimal sleep is now proven invaluable. There are meetings with Cid and Cor to discuss which regions they should focus on rebuilding first, consultations with Sania on opening the precious gene banks and beginning the restoration of flora and fauna, heated debates with Aranea and Dave regarding fuel rations for the Hunters. There are distributions of rations to oversee, regulations to draft, speeches to give. It isn’t enough to drive away the ache in his chest - nothing could ever do that - but it at least keeps the worst of the pain at bay.

Bit by bit, the days become longer. People begin to look toward a brighter future. A settlement is reestablished at Galdin Quay, and the population of Lestallum begins venturing there to relax by the ocean, watch the sunsets, and forget about their troubles. The nights also become safe enough for intrepid souls to venture away from the protection of artificial light for the first time in multiple lifetimes, and within a matter of months the New Lucian Astronomy Society is established. Iris is one of the founding members, and leads most of the early stargazing trips.

“We found a new constellation,” she tells Ignis after their fourth expedition. “Right between the Draconian and the Glacian.” She seems hesitant for a moment, and Ignis reaches out to catch her fingers and press them in reassurance.

“We’re calling it the King,” she says in a rush. “In honor of...in honor of Noctis.”

“That seems fitting,” says Ignis, forcing his voice past the ache in his throat. “He was the King chosen by the Stars. I’m not surprised that they would choose to honor him.”

Through all of it, he has Gladio and Prompto. The three of them had drifted apart during the Long Night, each one of them going wherever their skills were needed most, but their ordeal in the Crown City has tempered their bond, and made it stronger. Even though the business of securing new settlements and guarding supply caravans keeps Gladio and Prompto on the road for long stretches of time while Ignis is busy with the Council, the three of them maintain a shared residence in Lestallum. They’ve bound themselves together with an unspoken promise to never lose each other again.

* * *

Ignis has just been formally elected to his first term as President of the Republic of Lucis when he loses his temper in the middle of a Council meeting.

It’s a lovely day. The windows of what’s become the official Council chamber are flung wide open to let the warm breeze drift in,bringing the faint perfume of new blossoms with it. For the first time in what might as well be ages there are no immediate crises bearing down on them. Everyone is in high spirits, and even Ignis feels something like contentment.

Then one of the newly elected Council members - Jonnas, that’s his name - raises the issue of resettling Insomnia.

“Galdin is thriving,” says Jonnas, “and so are Hammerhead and Longwythe. It’s time to move back into the Crown City.”

Ignis’ jaw tightens, just a bit. “The Crown City was decimated during the Long Dark,” he says. “And any restoration effort will require considerable manpower, which I’m not certain we can spare.”

There’s a brief silence. A few people shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Lestallum has been unbearably crowded over the past ten years, as all of Eos tried to avail itself of the protection offered by the power plant, but now that people are moving into the settlements it’s becoming painfully obvious how little of the population managed to survive the Dark.

“Well,” says Jonnas, clearing his throat. “We wouldn’t be overambitious. But even if we only establish a foothold in one district, it would send a message to the citizens of the Crown City that we want them to be able to go home, even if it takes a while.” He’s warming to the subject. “We also need to have a celebration to mark the return of the Light. We could hold it in the Crown City, and use it to announce that we’re going to start resettling the capital in honor of King Noctis. We could even commission a statue of him.”

A statue of Noctis. Ignis can picture it: Noctis’ face carved out of cold stone, stern and unforgiving like the immortal visages of the Lucian kings whose tombs they’d visited. The boy who whined when Ignis dragged the covers off of the bed, laughed when chocobos plucked at his hair, and cheered when he managed to land a particularly large fish would be completely subsumed by the King of Light. The people will remember the legend, not the man of flesh and blood.

“There will be no statue,” he snaps. “And we will continue to focus our efforts on fortifying the settlements we’ve already established. We can discuss the matter of Insomnia later.” He brushes his fingers over the report in front of him. The Braille letters leap out at him as easily as printed words used to. “Now. I believe the next topic we are due to discuss is establishing new apple orchards in Cleigne?” 

There’s a soft shuffle of papers, and the Council moves on to other business.

Later that evening, Gladio comes into the kitchen and drops something heavy onto the counter just as Ignis is starting to prepare dinner. When Ignis reaches out to investigate, he feels scales under his fingertips.

“Fish,” he says, pleased. “Thank you.”

“Fresh from Galdin.” Gladio bumps his shoulder companionably. “Hey. Heard from Cor that you got a bit sore at today’s Council meeting.”

“Hmmm.” Ignis considers his menu options. He has some fresh greens, and some fruit. Those will go nicely with seafood. “I’m not sure pointing out that we’re in no position to mount a resettlement campaign in Insomnia proper is unreasonable. Would you like rice with dinner? Or bread?”

“Ignis.”

Ignis hunches his shoulders and pretends to focus entirely on his ingredients. It’s childish, but Gladio lets him get away with it. He just stands there, a warm and solid presence, and waits Ignis out.

“I suppose I might have been unduly emotional,” says Ignis finally, once the fish is in the oven. “It’s just that…” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He raises his hands helplessly, trying to convey whatever it is he means.

Strong fingers reach out to twine with his. “Hey,” says Gladio.

“Perhaps it’s selfish of me,” says Ignis, “but I think that maybe it’s better to leave the whole city in ruins. It was only sacred because of the Crystal, and in the end the Crystal was cruel. It kept Insomnia safe at the cost of Regis’ life, and it saved us from the dark at the cost of Noctis’.” His voice threatens to break, and he shakes his head in irritation. “We’re better off in places that don’t have the memory of a blood sacrifice hanging over it.”

“Or we could make it something new,” says Gladio. He runs his thumb over the back of Ignis’ hand. “It’s a new world, isn’t it? There’s nothing that says we have to move the seat of government back to the Crown City. But there’s something powerful about the idea of going _home_ , and the City was home to a lot of people who’ve settled here.”

“I understand that _intellectually_.” Ignis’ hand is tight on Gladio’s. “But it was always _his_ city. And I’m not sure I can bear seeing it without him in it.”

This time his voice does break, and he can’t stop it.

Gladio’s arms fold around him. Ignis tenses for a second, trying to retreat back into his armor of aloofness, then gives in to the proffered comfort and leans against Gladio’s chest. 

“We’ll go together first,” says Gladio quietly against Ignis’ ear. “Just the three of us, one last time. All right?”

Ignis takes a deep breath and nods against Gladio’s shoulder.

When Prompto gets home, filthy and tired after a day of accompanying supply convoys, Gladio tells him that the three of them are going to go back to their former home. Prompto doesn’t say anything, but when they sit down to dinner he reaches out and squeezes Ignis’ hand.

Ignis squeezes back.

* * *

The Crown City is quiet.

When Ignis first lived here it was the quintessential city that never slept, full of people and the symphony of noise that accompanied them. A lifetime later, when the four of them returned to oust Ardyn, the people were gone but the city hadn’t fallen silent. The ruined streets had echoed with the rumbling of daemons and mechanical clanking of magitek troopers, a cacophony that set Ignis’ teeth on edge but still let him build a fairly accurate map of his surroundings. He’s never been in the City when it’s like this, devoid of any sound except for their footsteps on the cracked pavement.

Except that isn’t exactly true, he realizes. The city _isn’t_ silent. He hears birds chirping back and forth to one another, and the occasional soft skittering of paws running over the ground tells him an animal is darting out of their path. The city might be devoid of people, but it is by no means dead, and that knowledge eases something inside of him. 

“What does it look like?” he asks his companions.

“Like a ruin,” says Gladio.

“Well...yeah,” says Prompto. “But it’s maybe more peaceful than desolate? There are these little flowers growing everywhere, pushing up through all of the cracks. I haven’t seen them anywhere else on Eos. Here, hold your hand out.”

Something soft and delicate drops onto Ignis’ extended palm. He explores it with the gentlest of touches. He feels five pointed petals arranged in a circle on a base of slightly spiky leaves, and when he lifts it toward his face he catches just a hint of its perfume: something light and elegant that makes him think of stars reflected on the dark waters of the Vesperpool.

“It smells lovely.”

“Yeah,” agrees Prompto. “They’re really pretty, too. The petals are this deep, intense blue, and the leaves are such a dark green they’re nearly black.”

Ignis doesn’t need to see to know that the flowers are the exact color of Noctis’ eyes. 

By the time they reach the Citadel the sun is high in the sky, and its warmth reflects off the stones of the Plaza onto Ignis’ face. The silence here is oppressive. Ignis remembers stepping into the Tomb of the Wise all those years ago, how the four of them were immediately enveloped by the weight of undisturbed centuries, and shivers in spite of the heat. 

None of them speak as they enter the Palace. When they finally arrive at the throne room, Ignis feels ghosts pressing in around him: King Regis, stern but kind, welcoming him to Insomnia when he was still a child; Noctis as a little boy clambering up the steps to the throne; Regis and Noctis bidding their farewells to each other the day before Noctis left for Altissia; Noctis telling Ardyn, _The King sits there_. It’s almost enough to make him falter. It would be, if it weren’t for Gladio and Prompto at his side.

They halt before the throne. Gladio’s hand is tight on his shoulder, and Prompto’s arm brushes reassuringly against his. 

“Need a minute?” asks Gladio, voice low.

Ignis nods. “Please.” 

He steps forward alone, and makes his way carefully up the stairs. He hesitates for a moment when he reaches the top. Noctis’ body had vanished with the Dawn, but the Sword of the Father had been left behind, its sharp point thrust deep into the throne’s ornate back. Ignis reaches out, and his fingers brush against the handle. Still there, then. There’s no sudden rush of power, no magic tingling across his skin. Now that the Crystal’s gone it’s like any other sword, heavy and mundane. He lets his fingers fall away.

A breeze blows across his face. He turns away from the throne and makes his way toward it, stumbling across pieces of scattered rubble. He keeps going until he feels the warmth of sunlight on his face, then sits down on one of the larger chunks of stone. He inhales deeply, and smells the blue flowers’ perfume. They must be blooming everywhere.

“I wish I could see you again,” murmurs Ignis. “Just one last time.”

Ignis hadn’t cried when the Dawn broke, and hadn’t cried in the aftermath, but now he rests his head on his knees and weeps. He weeps for Noctis the child, chosen by the gods to sacrifice his life before he was even old enough to comprehend what such a thing meant; weeps for the youth who rushed to embrace the world with so much bravery and wonder; and weeps for the man who would surely have been one of Lucis’ greatest kings (and oh, he is, of course he is, but how much could he have accomplished if he’d only had _time_?). It’s messy. His eyes hurt, his breath comes in loud, heaving gasps, and his entire body shakes with the force of his sobs. When they finally taper off, an eternity later, he feels empty and exhausted. 

It might just be a stray gust of wind, but for a moment Ignis feels a gentle caress against the back of his neck. The scent of the flowers is strong and sweet without being overpowering. Something inside of him that has been wound up painfully tight starts to ease.

“All right,” he says, and gets to his feet. “All right.” 

Gladio and Prompto are there to enfold him in their arms as he descends the stairs. Ignis buries his face in Gladio’s shoulder as he pulls Prompto tight against him. This is Noctis’ greatest gift to them, he thinks. Noctis gave them each other.

* * *

There isn’t a statue. Ignis remains firm on that point. They do, however, turn the Citadel plaza into a garden planted with Tenebraen sylleblossoms and the blue flowers that appeared in the City after the light returned. The people have taken to calling them Stars of Lucis. Ignis thinks it’s a fitting name, even if it sometimes makes his chest ache.

The Palace itself remains closed. It’s Noctis’ tomb, in a way, and the thought of returning it to something as mundane as a center of government feels wrong, somehow. Sacrilegious. So the official capital remains in Lestallum, while the Crown City is on its way to becoming the center of history and culture.

Ignis is just as happy that his official duties keep him in Lestallum, but he’d asked Gladio and Prompto if the two of them would rather move back to their former home. Gladio works with Dave and Cor on security, and could easily live wherever he chooses, while Prompto has turned his seemingly boundless energy reserves to helping establish an arts program for Lucis’ children. Ignis had been surprised, then surprised that he was surprised. Prompto had always preferred his camera to weapons, and was probably just as happy to set his guns aside. He might have actually been better off returning to Insomnia, but both he and Gladio told Ignis they wanted to stay with him.

“It’s nice to see people going back,” said Gladio, “but I’m good here. Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on you, right?”

“Yeah,” agreed Prompto. “If we leave, you’ll just work yourself to death, and we’ll need to hold interim elections. Sounds like a hassle.”

Ignis laughed, and they never mentioned it again. That the Crown City holds ghosts for all of them, that sometimes you can’t go back - these are not things that need to be said aloud.

It is nice, though, to return each year for the Dawn Festival. Ignis sits with Gladio and Prompto at the side of the Citadel Garden closest to the Palace, listening to music and taking tiny sips of ulwaat liqueur. That had been one of Coctura’s inventions, and it’s become wildly popular - so popular, in fact, that it’s only ever served at special occasions. They’d run out of it otherwise.

The festivities were riotous when they began at sundown, but now they’ve taken on the quieter, more reverential tone that means daybreak is imminent. Ignis is leaning heavily against Gladio’s shoulder, and Prompto is slumped against him. They’ve stopped talking a while ago, content simply to be in each other’s presence. Then Prompto shifts, nudging up against Ignis’ shoulder.

“It’s starting,” he says.

Everyone rises and turns to the East. There’s a moment of tension as all of Lucis holds its breath. Then it releases as the sun breaks over the horizon and light floods over the land.

Ignis senses the sun on his face, smells the sweetness of the Stars of Lucis, and feels the warmth of Gladio and Prompto beside him. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the clean early morning air, and feels at peace.

 _Thank you, Noctis_ , he thinks, and reaches for his companions’ hands.

_Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Eh. I had high hopes for this fic, but sometimes you end up just writing *something*, even if it's not what you wanted to write.


End file.
